Saturday, October 31, 2015

Hope springs
eternal, of course, and we never give up hope of getting in one more fishing
trip before winter. The die-hard anglers know that fall fishing might be the
best fishing and go after them, but for those of us who like to spend our
autumns carrying shotguns and following bird dogs it’s a tough call to have to
choose between fishing and hunting. I suppose if all is right with the world
we’d get in so much fishing during the spring and summer that we’d be satisfied
come fall and happy to stow the rods for the guns. How much fishing would that
take? I can’t imagine.

After our
great trip to Alaska, Scott and I made one float trip on a familiar river with less
than spectacular results – a couple of smallish northern pike and I was kinda’
thinking that would be the last trip of the season. I’ve been in grouse hunting
mode since, with thoughts of the approaching deer season but when Scott
suggested one more try for muskies I couldn’t turn it down. Fish or no fish, a float down
a backcountry autumn river is worth doing.

The days are
getting short in late October so we picked a section of river neither of us had
been on, but one we could easily finish before dark. I left my place well
before sunup and drove through the rain dodging deer the entire way to the
landing. It quit raining with the daylight and I flushed a flock of Canada
geese when I pulled up to the river. Minutes later Scott showed and after
shuttling the vehicles we slipped the Fishcat into the water and were on our
way. As usual, Scott took the first shift at the oars of his boat and it turned
out to be my lucky day.

I like fly fishing for big fish and I'm lucky to have a group of friends who feel the same way. I like tying the big flies, though they take a while 'cause of all the material involved, and I like being able to attach the fly to the leader without a magnifying glass. And when that fly hits the water there's no doubt about where it is. Tossing big water-soaked flies can get tiring and a bit tough on the shoulder but it's the price we pay, and at the end of the day I've never heard any regrets from anyone. And when a big fish hits that fly, well...!

I was
casting a deer hair diver, articulated red and black, a copy of the one I lost
to a nice musky last fall and it was hard to decide where to cast in a river so
full of good cover. There were rocks, logs, sweepers, deep holes and runs, and
weed beds from shoreline to shoreline. The oars dipped the water and my line
zinged through the air. The first fish was a small pike, nothing to brag about
but got me on the board. Then we pulled through a couple of shallow riffles and
came to a deep run on river-left. I made a cast under a bankside cedar tree and
stripped it back just as I’d been doing since we’d started. The fish appeared
from below the fly and sort of rubbed it against its back before disappearing
into the deeper water again.

I can’t
remember exactly what was said but it went something like: “Did you see that?!”
“Oh yeah!” “It was huge!” All while Scott was back-rowing to keep me in
position for another shot. I was hoping against hope the fish would show again
and I took two, maybe three more casts when the big musky came up and nosed the
fly, turned away for a second then turned back and grabbed it. Fish on – strip set,
strip set, strip set!

There was
some pretty excited chatter while Scott handled the boat and I played the fish.
We’d get it close but when it wanted to it just swam away, bending my rod and
peeling line. It seemed to be hooked well but I couldn’t help wondering about
my knots and leader strength. The longer I fought it the more nervous I became,
but I finally got it alongside enough for Scott to push the net under it and it
was ours. It's easily the biggest fish
I’ve landed on a fly rod and my sigh of relief came with a happy smile.

We pulled to
shore for photos and released the fish to swim away a little indignant at
having been caught, but perhaps to be caught again.

It wasn’t
the only musky we saw that day, another followed that same fly right to the
boat but some clumsy rod handling on my part spooked the fish at the boat and
it turned away for good. We ended the day landing plenty of smaller pike. I
took the big fish award, but Scott caught the most. I’m not saying the fishing
is over, but it’s almost November and I can’t think of a better way to end the
season.

Sunday, October 18, 2015

I’ve been fortunate to have lived many fine days in the
outdoors, and I’ll have to count the last two as a couple of the best. Jack was
still favoring his front leg after coming up lame from a hunt earlier this
week, so my plan was to head north with the dogs and give Jack a short run in cover before hiking up to check my deer stand with my new pup, Gabby. It was sunny and 35 degrees when I hit
the road, the remaining fall color was brilliant and I can’t say I’ve seen a
prettier October day.

I took the backroads as much as I could, which is quite a
bit, checking new cover and some of my good hunting spots along the way. Over
the years I’ve lost some favored covers due to paper company leases, but I’ve
heard many of those leases were being cancelled and the Nature Conservancy was
involved in buying up some of that land. I need to find out more about that,
but I when I drove by a cover I used to hunt I noticed all the lease signs were
down. I nearly stopped to check it out, but I had another spot in mind for
Jack.

It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon and there were plenty
of folks out hunting in the various methods they deploy – I saw a couple of
pickup trucks stopped on the road with the doors still flung open and an
orange-clad shotgun-toting body or two sneaking along trying to see the grouse
on the ground. That’s one way: cruise along slowly ‘till you see a bird beside
the road and, if you’re a sportsman, jump out to ground-swat ‘em. Lots of times
the grouse goes sulking away, thus the hunters go creeping through the roadside
cover hoping to get a look at the bird before it flies away. If you’re not so
sporting you might take a shot out the window, but folks get arrested for that
every year, and it seems to happen less and less. Then there’re all manner of
ATV’s and UTV’s running around with uncased guns aboard, which is apparently
legal these days. And, of course, there are plenty of foot hunters with or
without canine help.

I turned off one gravel road onto a narrow dead end forest
road with one particular cover in mind. There was a truck parked at the trailhead
so I drove on to the next good place up the road. I wasn’t surprised to see it
empty. It’s a short trail to a tiny clearing and that’s where the trail pretty
much ends. If you know the way you can find remnants of logging trails from
years past, but it’s not a place to go without a compass and/or GPS. Even if
you know the way, it’s a thick, tight cover to hunt and move around in.

I stepped out of my truck and was looking at a grouse twenty
feet away. It was alert and strutting around and offered a perfect opportunity
to give Gabby a nose full of bird scent. She’s found several grouse so far and
though I won’t shoot over her yet it’s fun to watch her rushing around in puppy
fashion. It didn’t take long before she snapped to a stop for a moment before
spotting the grouse moving away and the short chase was on. I took it as a good
omen so I rounded her up and put her back in the truck. Jack was ready and
waiting while I put on my vest and old hunting hat. A bell collar for Jack and
I grabbed my gun and we were hunting.

In minutes I was at the clearing and Jack worked the thick
stuff beyond. A second later his bell fell silent and I pushed in to find him.
He wasn’t far and I got to him just as a grouse flushed and was fast leaving
when my right barrel caught up and the bird dropped. Neat – one point, one
shot, one retrieve. I pocketed the bird and we were off. Minutes later Jack was
pointing again. The grouse flushed left and I thought I’d missed but instead of
escaping into the cover, the grouse turned and gained altitude, spiraling higher
and higher above the trees. I'd never seen anything like it and I stood watching, wondering if I should shoot
again. Then the bird came down and hit the ground. I’d read of headshot grouse
behaving that way but have never witnessed it. Until now.

I called Jack to retrieve the dead bird but he was pointing
again. Another shot and another grouse. While I handled him to the retrieves
another grouse got up in front of me, but I watched it go without raising the
gun. That made five grouse we’d moved in less than a half hour. Nice. I figured
that was enough and we headed back for the truck only a couple of hundred yards
away. I could see the truck when Jack swung to the edge of an alder run and
stopped again. That grouse went out of a tree and was the first miss of the
day. Still, there was a satisfying heft to my game bag and our short hunt was a
big success.I sat on my tailgate eating
the hot soup in my thermos and watched a couple of road hunters drive by. I’d
heard only one other shot that morning.

I took Gabby up to the deer stand and she had fun tearing
around looking for anything she could find. But we found nothing, not even any
deer sign.

Speaking of sign, it seems there are a lot more road signs
than there needs to be on the backroads. There’s a great big Forest Service
sign at the entrance to Echo Lake Campground and that’s understandable, but the
two signs down the road announcing the campground in 500 feet seems like
overkill. And the metal street signs at the various woods roads take some of
the feeling away from being in the woods. There was a big wooden sign erected
on a logging road by the Ruffed Grouse Society claiming a management/hunting
area, but it appears someone got tired of seeing it. Or maybe they just needed
some firewood.

Today I was at Paul’s hunting camp. We’d made the plan to
hunt his property with Scarlett and Jack, and I was happy to see Jack moving
well after yesterday’s short outing. It was another gorgeous day, sunny and
cool, the kind of October day any bird hunter longs for. Jack was still on his
game, pointing one of the two grouse we found, and a half dozen or so woodcock.
Add in Scarlett’s work and we had plenty of shooting.

It was a fine weekend for bird hunting, the kind classic
stories were written about. It was a fine weekend to be outside doing anything.
Gabby had her first whiff of dead birds; I was shooting well, though Paul
credited that to my shotgun; we sat outside the shack sipping coffee and
watched the pup chase around while the two old setters lay in the grass
sleeping. All too soon it was time to call it a day and go home to clean birds.
Thank you, yeah.

About Me

Lucky enough to be raised by an outdoorsman father, I've been messing around with dogs, guns, fishing rods, canoes, tents, snowshoes, etc., my entire life. And it's not over yet. I like good bourbon, good books, and honest, genuine folks. Good fishing and happy hunting to you. -- Al Ranfranz